001 Beginnings
by Insane And Out Of Your Mind
Summary: A look at how four year old Natasha Nilson wound up on the Cassadine compound as Alexis Davidovitch, with no memory of her former identity or her life before arriving on the Greek island. Also, my first entry into the fanfic100 challenge.
1. Mama

**001. Beginnings.**

Author: Cate

Summary: A look at how four-year-old Natasha Nilson wound up on the Cassadine compound as Alexis Davidovitch, with no memory of her former identity or her life before arriving on the Greek island. Also, my first entry into the fanfic100 challenge.

Rating: PG

Background: I'm using the original timeline that was given for Alexis during the Natasha reveal, when Luke said that she was four when her mother died. This also means that Big Kristina doesn't exist, nor does Sam.

Author's Note: After months of waiting, my Alexis/Natasha claim has finally been accepted for the LJ Fanfic100 challenge. The stories I'm planning will be loosely connected, so you can read them in order or on their own. For my own sanity, though, the titles will all be numbered. For more information about the challenge, go to **community (dot) livejournal (dot) com (slash) fanfic100** and read the FAQ.

Disclaimer: I'm in no way affiliated with GH or ABCD.

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It was late; very, very late. It was the kind of hour when most little girls had been in bed for quite some time already, and most adults were preparing to follow suit. Natasha Nilson had, in fact, been put to bed hours ago, but that hadn't stopped her from creeping out of her bedroom the moment she saw his headlights flash through her window. 

The small child watched from atop the stairs as her mother greeted him at the door. His visits were a regular occurance, had been for as long as she could remember. Natasha had been secretly observing them ever since she'd graduated from a crib to a big-girl bed last year. She knew instinctively the importance of not being caught; just once, at the age of two, she'd been found climbing out of her crib, and the scolding she'd received had more than convinced her to never do it again. Natasha couldn't bear to have her mama angry at her, and so she remained quietly in the dark, careful not to alert the grown-ups to her presence.

This position offered her a distinct disadvantage; she had a clear view of her mother's back and of the heavy wooden door, but she couldn't see him at all, save for a black wool hat and a pair of shiny, shiny black shoes. He always wore black - she'd seen part of his coat once; it was long and heavy and reminded her of the patrons at the opera houses where her mother performed. He spoke French with a slight accent and a hushed voice, a combination that kept her from understanding the brief snippets of conversation that found their way to her ears. Apparently, her mother didn't share this problem, as Kristin's laughter rang out through the house in response to something he'd said. Natasha leaned against the banister contentedly, closing her large brown eyes as she absorbed the sound. She loved to hear her mama laugh, more than she loved to hear her sing, and she _loved_ to hear her mama sing.

He left shortly after that, which didn't strike Natasha as being very strange; some nights he came in, but not very often. Some nights, like this one, he and Kristin just stood in the doorway. Tonight, Kristin leaned against the door for a while after closing it after him, listening to the dimming roar of his car's engine until it could be heard no more. Natasha stayed up and watched until her mama finally retreated to the living room, then soundlessly went back to bed.

She was awakened again not an hour later by the same flash of light in her window. This made the little girl uneasy; he'd never come twice in one night before. Clearly, her mother was nervous as well; Natasha feigned sleep when her door creaked open, and Kristin stepped in to check on her. She felt strands of straight, brown hair being swept aside before her mama's lips softly brushed against her forhead, and breathed in the familiar scent of perfume, which lingered in the air moments after the door gently clicked shut, signalling that Kristin had departed. Natasha waited, giving her mother enough time to get downstairs before she got up and followed her out of the room, resuming her former post on the top step.

Immediately, she knew something was wrong as a shrill female voice that definitely did not belong to her mother drifted up to Natasha's ears. Her mama was arguing with the woman, telling her to leave. It didn't occur to Natasha that the woman wouldn't listen. Natasha always listened to her mama - _almost _always, she amended - so naturally, it followed that everyone else did the same. She knew with a confused clarity that she had been sorely mistaken when she saw her mother take a step back, revealing a willowy blonde woman with a mad expression in her eyes. For the first time in her four years, little Natasha knew what true fear was when she realized that the strange women clutched an old, bloodied knife in her hand.

"Mama!" Natasha screamed, forgetting that she was supposed to remain unseen as she practically flew down the stairs. She had expected to run into her mother's waiting arms, for Kristin to protect her and make the bad woman leave. When she reached the bottom step, however, her mother was on the floor, and very badly hurt. "Mama, get up," the child cried, but the bad woman caught her arm and wouldn't let her go.

"She's gone," the lady said, taking a sick pleasure in the small girl's distress. "She died for you, her little bastard. But don't worry. You'll see her again very soon."

Natasha wasn't listening; she was focused on her mama, willing her to wake up. Something distracted the bad lady, making her loosen her grip; Natasha wrenched her arm free, and in an instant she was on her knees at her mother's side, her head resting on Kristin's unmoving chest. She didn't know when he came back, or when the bad lady went away. She didn't see or hear anything until a familiar pair of black shoes entered her field of vision, and suddenly she found herself in his arms.


	2. Don't Cry

_"It's been hours. Why isn't she waking up?"_

_"Please, sir. The child has just suffered a terrible trauma; please, be patient."_

_"Patient? She's been unconcious for four days, and you've done nothing but stand over her and stare! Make yourself useful, doctor, or I'll find a more suitable replacement. In fact, that's exactly what I'm going to do. Get out, and be grateful; were I not so distracted, I assure you, your departure would be neither this quick nor this painless."_

_The doctor was not a man easily shaken, but at Mikkos Cassadine's words, he quivered. Jumping at the chance to leave with his life intact - it was far more than most who entered the Cassadine employ were allowed - the elderly man fled from the room, leaving his belongings behind._

_Mikkos ignored the physician, his attention focused solely on the tiny four-year-old nestled at the center of a king-size antique bed. Her eyes were firmly closed, the long lashes settled gently against disturbingly pale cheeks. She'd moved but once since they'd left Paris; he'd tried to sweep some loose strands of hair away from her face, and she stirred just long enough to push his hand away before passing out once more. It pained him to have her refuse his touch, even in her unaware state, and though he kept constant vigil over the child, he did not attempt to caress her again._

_So absorbed was Mikkos in keeping watch over the child that he failed to notice his wife slip in through the door behind him. Helena crossed the room to take the doctor's bag from the nightstand beside the bed, all the while ignoring both her husband and the small girl. Turning her back to them, she placed the bag on the desk in the far corner of the room, and sat down to rummage through its contents. Without a sound, she extracted a small, clear vial of liquid, which she handed to her husband. Mikkos' dark eyes left the child for the first time, flickering from his wife to the vial and back._

_"You know what that is." Helena posed the phrase as a statement, rather than a question. "Give her just enough, and she'll be... Well, very impressionable, to say the least. Give her too much..." She drew one long, tapered finger across her own throat, her mouth forming a sick smile. "Personally, I prefer the latter option, but the choice, my love, is yours. You can give her whichever dose you choose, or I will choose for you. Oh, don't look so stricken, my darling," she implored in response to his shocked expression. "You must know that this is the best thing for her. Would you really want your little bastard to spend the rest of her life with the memory of witnessing her mother's death, and the knowledge that Kristin died because of her? It would be much kinder just to put her out of her misery, don't you think?"_

_Frowning, Mikkos stood, towering above Helena. She looked him in the eye, unafraid, but after a moment she backed down and seated herself at the edge of the bed, as far from the child as she could get. "There will be," he announced, "For lack of a better term, several ground rules. You are never to harm my daughter. In exchange, no one, including her, will ever know that she is my child. She will be raised as a poor, orphaned relation, and treated as a member of the family." He paused to think, rubbing his temples in exhaustion. "My sister, Sophia, was exiled from the family many years ago, in part because she had taken up with a known Soviet supporter. What was his name? Something dreadfully common. Davidovitch, that's it. Alexei Davidovitch. He and Sophia both passed several months back; a car accident, or something along those lines." He described his sister's death with no emotion, as though it had been an anonymous headline in the morning paper._

_"Did they have children?" Helena inquired, casually feigning interest._

_"Only her," Mikkos replied sadly, nodding in the tiny girl's direction. "Alexis. Daughter of Alexei and Sophia. Tragically orphaned, but taken in by a charitable aunt and uncle. No one will ever know any differently." Without another word to his wife, Mikkos opened the vial and poured out half a capful of the liquid. Tilting his daughter's head back, he poured the serum into her mouth, then massaged her throat in order to make her swallow. With a heavy sigh, he changed places with his wife, allowing her to do what was necessary while he looked on._

_"Alexis, wake up now." Her voice was a saccharine poison. "Alexis, listen to me. You are an orphan. Your parents, Sophia Cassadine and Alexei Davidovitch, were recently killed in a car crash. Your uncle Mikkos and aunt Helena have been kind enough to take you in. They've given you a home, a room on the family island in Greece. Won't you wake up and tell them how grateful you are?"_

_The child didn't stir. Helena left the room with a satisfied smile, motioning for Mikkos to follow. With a reluctant glance back at the little girl he could no longer call his daughter, he joined his wife in the hall._

_"It is done," she told him. "She will remember nothing but what I told her."_

_Mikkos did not respond. Instead, he glanced forlornly through the open doorway as Natasha - _Alexis _- started to wake._

She was in a strange room, in a bed that was much too large for her tiny body. Nearby, she could hear a woman's high-pitched voice speaking in a language she couldn't understand. Her eyes darted around the room, searching in vain for something familiar, but there was nothing recognizable about her surroundings. Frightened, she clutched her pillow and began to cry.

"Alexis?" A tall, broad man in a black suit entered the room, quickly taking the seat next to her bed. "It's all right, Alexis, don't cry."

She was sure that she'd seen him before, though for the life of her she couldn't imagine where; suddenly, a name came to her. "Uncle Mikkos?" she sniffed through tears.

"Yes," he confirmed with a sigh; it broke his heart to be unable to claim her as his own daughter, but he knew that his wife considered her very existance a direct insult. Helena could not be trusted to let the girl live if the truth was known, and so, for Natasha's protection, he lied. "Alexis, do you know what has happened?"

Alexis should her head, and began to sob even harder. She couldn't remember anything at all aside from waking up. She knew that this place was not her home, but she had no recollection of where her home was. The child felt completely and utterly alone.

Mikkos wanted to hold her again, but kept his distance, fearing that he might break down and tell her everything. Instead he simply, uselessly repeated, "Don't cry."


End file.
